Not So Friendly Impulses
by J9
Summary: The aftermath of a shooting makes things clearer for some CSIs. (W/S)


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Title: Not So Friendly Impulses

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Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

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Rating: PG

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Pairing: Sara/Warrick

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Spoilers: Mild for _Unfriendly Skies_

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Feedback: Makes my day

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Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

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Archive: At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/csi/csific.htm) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

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Summary: The aftermath of a shooting brings some things into sharp focus.

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Author's Notes: This came to me when watching the DVD of _Unfriendly Skies _- what would it be like it Sara found out that Warrick was right about taking a life. It started there, ended up somewhere completely different once Nick got in on the act, and I'm still not sure what it is…but here goes!

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There's an otherworldly quality about the scene, despite the fact that it's something that's happened hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. You and Nick, in the break room at the end of the shift, sitting around the table, shooting the breeze, discussing cases, sports, women, whatever happens to be on your minds at that precise moment in time. You do it all the time, and it's the most normal thing in the world. 

Which is exactly what makes it so incongruous today. 

How can you be here, wallowing in normality, after something like that?

You suppose that you do it because there's nothing else you can do, not really. Besides, Nick was there, you weren't, and he's giving you all the details. Some might say that the two of you are gossiping like a pair of old women, but you know that it's not like that. You want to know what happened, and Nick sure as hell needs to talk about it, so this little confab serves a purpose for you both. 

You stop talking abruptly when the door opens, looking up to see the object of your conversation walk in. And you have to struggle to keep your face straight, because you've known her a long time and you've seen her in a lot of circumstances, but you've never seen her look like this. Her face is pale, her eyes are rimmed in red, and her hair is sticking up all over the place, the mark of hours of her hands running through it. She's wearing a sweatshirt that's too big for her, and it's practically hanging off her, the LVPD logo stamped across her chest. Neither you nor Nick know what to say to her, so you just sit there, waiting for her to make the first move. It seems to take a while for her to focus on you though, because you see the realisation dawn in her eyes, and your heart contracts at the tiny smile she tries to give you, and her whisper of "Hey guys."

Nick, being Nick, is all charm and talk and solicitude, frowning up at her in worry, asking her how she is. You want to snort with disgust because there's only one answer to that question and your Aunt Bertha, the legally blind one, could see it. She just gives a wan smile in response, tucking a strand of brown hair behind one ear, tells him that she's ok. Calling her on the lie is on the tip of your tongue, but again you keep silent, because she doesn't need that right now. "I just came in for some coffee," she says, and you stand, going over to the machine, because at least that's something you can do.

The pot is half full and still hot, so you fill her a cup, a real cup, not one of those Styrofoam beakers that drive her crazy. When you turn, she's standing beside you, taking the cup from your grasp with another tiny smile, a spark of momentary gratitude in her otherwise lifeless eyes. She leans against the counter as she takes a sip, both hands holding the cup, knuckles white. You mimic her posture, arms behind you, hands resting on the counter, and you look down at her, trying not to be too obvious about it. 

"You had to do it Sara," Nick tells her, breaking the silence in the room, and she looks at him over the rim of the cup, her face not giving anything away. "Brass knows that right?"

She nods, then shrugs. "He's got your statement…and Ecklie's sending in McGregor from Days to process the scene. We can't do it, obviously." She looks down at the sweatshirt that's wearing her rather than the other way around, wrinkling her nose. "They had to take my clothes…" 

"That's procedure," Nick tells her needlessly, and she nods again, her eyes closing suddenly, screwed up tight, head twisting to the side as if she's in pain. You chance a quick glance at Nick, seeing the same bolt of fear that just lashed through your heart flashing across his face, and he's the one who asks her, "You ok?"

She takes in a shuddering breath, lets it out slowly, and her grip on the cup, already tight, tightens some more. The thought occurs to you that she's going to break it if she keeps that up, and you almost miss the first part of her reply. "I just keep seeing his face…the impact of the gun, the noise…" She shakes her head from side to side. "My ears are still ringing."

The picture that Nick painted imprints itself in the front of your brain; a routine visit to talk to the husband of the victim, the one that they were sure was guilty. Things had been going fine, Nick had said; he'd let them search the house with no problems, until, that was, Sara found a false bottom in one of the cabinets, a loaded gun concealed inside. Nick had been standing right across the room, too far away to react immediately when the husband made a lunge for Sara, going for the gun. Nick had been shocked at the change in the man's demeanour, had honestly feared for Sara's life and Sara had told him, white and shaking while they waited for the police, that she'd thought he was going to kill her. They'd been struggling for the gun when it had gone off, and in the stillness, Nick had a moment of pure terror when he thought that it was Sara who'd been shot. 

The images render you mute, Nick too, and she's the one who speaks, her words leaving your head spinning in confusion. "You were right Warrick," she says, looking up at you, face calm, and your reaction is far less eloquent.

"Huh?" is the best you can do, and Nick's frowning too, at a loss.

"When we worked that aeroplane case, remember? We all sat in here afterwards, and I was so sure that no matter what, I could never take a life." Memories stir now, of a mobile crime scene and an enraged mob, and how you all worked as a team to find out what really happened. "You said that you could, if it was down to you or them. I didn't believe you." A bitter smile twists her face, and she hides it behind a sip of coffee. "You were right."

You want to tell her that this is one of those times that you'd really rather have been wrong. Except you realise quickly that it's not, because let's be honest here, if it's a choice between her and some dirtbag murderer, you're glad that she's the one who walked away. 

You just wish that she'd never been in a position to find out if you were right or wrong. 

You don't tell her that though. Instead, you sigh, shaking your head, and you stay silent. It's only when you look over at Nick and see that he's looking at you strangely that you realise that your hand is resting on the small of her back, fingers rubbing the soft material of the sweatshirt. It's only then that you realise just how little space is between the two of you, and how she's leaning towards you, inches away from collapsing against you. 

The moment is broken when the door opens again and Grissom comes in, eyes narrowing behind his glasses when he sees her there. Seeing him is like an electric shock to her system; she stands up and blinks rapidly, trying to bring herself back to alertness, and you take a half a step away from her. Grissom's not concerned about that though, more about the fact that she's still here at all. "I thought I told you to go home," he questions, and she smiles sheepishly. 

"I just wanted to get some coffee," she tells him, holding up the cup, and he nods, but he still looks worried. 

"You ok to get home?" is his next question. 

"I'll be fine Grissom," she responds, draining the last of her cup, putting it down on the bench behind you, her hand drifting over yours surreptitiously, a brief whisper of a touch. 

"You don't come in tomorrow," he tells her, shifting on his feet slightly. Her eyes widen, but his face is impassive. "You're on administrative leave Sara…it's procedure."

She holds his gaze for a long moment, then drops her head, defeated. "Fine," she mutters, beginning a long slow walk towards the door. 

"I'll walk you out," Grissom says, shooting you and Nick a look. "See you tomorrow guys."

You nod, so does Nick, and your eyes follow them out the door and down the hall, as far as the windows will allow. When you look back at Nick, you see that he's looking at you with curiosity stamped all over his face. You stare at him, daring him silently to tell you what's on his mind, and finally, he chuckles to himself without humour, asking you, "What was that?"

Your eyes narrow and you frown, giving him your best "what do you mean?" look, and he continues, waving his hand between you and the empty space where Sara was standing. "Between you and Sara just now? There was a vibe between the two of you…"

A blast of air escapes your lips, a noise of disgust that's accompanied by a vehement shake of the head. 

"I'm serious man," he continues, undeterred. "I saw where your hand was…"

Your eyes widen. "We're friends Nick," you tell him, scorn dripping from the words. 

"Friends," he repeats sceptically, and you nod firmly. 

"Friends," you repeat. "She's in a bad place, you know that. It was a friendly impulse."

He nods, lifting two eyebrows. "Friends," he repeats again, the way he might respond if you told him that Elvis was going to be singing at next year's Superbowl halftime show. "Uh-huh."

You shake your head again, holding up your hands. "I've got to get to the lab," you say, because Greg's doing a bit of overtime, running DNA samples for you, and if you make him late for his breakfast date with his co-ed du jour, he's going to be whinging about it for the rest of the week. So you haul ass out of that break room as fast as you can, away from Nick and his questions and his scepticism, but his words keep playing over and over in your mind.

And so do yours. 

You told him the truth. You are friends. And putting your hand on her back today was a friendly impulse. 

What wasn't a friendly impulse was how you were seconds away from lifting up the sweatshirt, so that instead of soft material, you'd be running your hand over the soft warm skin of her back. 

Talking to Nick, finding out what really went down was friendly concern.

The fact that you wanted to know so that she wouldn't have to go through telling you herself, so that you could dispense with the need to talk about it, and just be there for her instead, that was also friendly concern. Sort of.

The fact that, when she walked in to that break room, so looking so fragile, so small in that too-big sweatshirt, all you wanted to do was take her in your arms, well, that was not so friendly concern. 

Getting her coffee when she came in today was a friendly impulse. 

It's not a friendly impulse when you bring her coffee early in the morning, when she's sleeping in your bed, covers drawn up over her naked body. You bring a cup for yourself too, and you drink it lying in bed, wrapped in one another's arms, talking about anything and everything and nothing. 

You're still thinking about the conversation with Nick in the car on the way home, listening to your favourite radio station, and you think that a friendly reaction is when you're driving to a crime scene and you end up good-naturedly squabbling about what radio station you should have on. You favour hip-hop, she favours rock, and you like nothing better than to tease her about flicking over from your favourite song, as she ignores you and sings along quietly. 

It's not such a friendly reaction when the same discussion takes place in your kitchen when you're making breakfast together, you clad in T-shirt and boxer shorts, her in one of your shirts, and you end up letting her leave her favourite song playing, just so you can watch her shimmy around the kitchen. 

As you drive, you admit to yourself that Nick's right. Whatever this is between you, however it started, you're not just friends now, not even friends with benefits in the words of that song that she was singing this morning as she dressed for work. You can't tell him that though, can't tell any of them that. 

You're not even sure that you can tell her that. 

It's still on your mind as you take the turn onto your street, driving down and turning into your driveway, past the familiar car parked outside. You're thinking of it as you walk up to the front porch, pausing when you see her hunched form sitting on the steps, arms around her knees. Your shadow falls over her, and she looks up at you, tears standing in her eyes. 

You blow out a breath, sinking down beside her. Just like in the break room, you don't touch her, don't make any move towards her at all. Because after all, officially, you're just friends to the outside world, and technically, this is still the outside world. 

Your hand doesn't seem to recognise that though, because just like in the break room, it reaches out of its own volition, responding to the friendly impulse of rubbing the material at the small of her back. 

Just like before, she's leaning in towards you, but this time, there's no Nick observing you, no Grissom to disturb you. So this time, she allows herself to fall into you slowly, a tower of strength crumbling one grain of sand at a time, until her head is resting on your shoulder. 

You wrap your arm around her, holding her like that, and you don't know how long it is before you give her a squeeze, a wordless suggestion that you should stand and enter the house. She smiles up at you tiredly, allowing you to help her up, and you guide her through the front door, eschewing the kitchen and its promise of food to bring her straight to your bedroom. 

While you'd normally file that under the category of "not-so-friendly impulses", right now, a friendly impulse all it is. She pulls the ugly navy blue sweatshirt away from her skin, holding it out, wrinkling her nose. "They took my clothes," she says again, and you get a picture of the shirt that she left the house in that morning, stained with blood and gore, and you shudder, thinking how close you came to losing her. 

"Take mine," you say, crossing to the closet, pulling out the first shirt that comes to hand, tossing it on the bed. She can't take her eyes off it for some reason, and you go to her, taking the hem of the sweatshirt in hand, drawing it over her head gently. You've done this for her a hundred times, in a not so friendly way, but this isn't about that, this is about bring there for her, so you ball up the sweatshirt and throw it in the corner, resolving to burn it as soon as you get her to sleep. You do the same for the sweatpants they found her, then you help her into the shirt, buttoning it up, smoothing it down over her shoulders, running your hands down her back as she steps into you, resting her head on your shoulder again. 

"You want food?" you say, and you feel her shake her head. That's when you realise that she's shaking from head to foot, and you frown. "You're shaking."

You feel her take a sharp breath, and it emerges in a grotesque parody of a chuckle. "I can't stop," she tells you, and somewhere in the back of your mind, the word "shock" takes form and you wrap your arms just a little bit tighter around her. 

You bring her over to the bed, releasing one arm so that you can pull back the covers, helping her in. "Go to sleep," you tell her as you sit on top of the covers, running your hand over her hair. 

Her eyes close, but the tension still runs through her body, taut as a bow. You sit there beside her, waiting for the tension to ease, but there's no respite, and she opens her eyes, reaching up with one hand to grip your wrist. "I don't know what I'll see," she whispers. 

You sigh. "Move over," you say, and she does, not only moving over, but also rolling over, so that her back is to you. You lie down, staying on top of the covers, one arm slipping under her neck, the other around her waist. One of her hands comes out from under the covers, grasping yours, and you lie there like that, spooned together, until at last you feel the tension easing bit by bit from her body, until her breathing evens and she's asleep. 

You know you should get up, because you've got stuff to do. You want to cook her something for when she wakes up, because she's gonna have to eat, even though she's not gonna want to, and besides, you've got a sweatshirt to burn so that she won't have to look at it again. 

But you don't get up, you don't move, and not only because you don't want to. 

But because you've figured out the answer to one of your earlier musings. 

No matter what you told Nick, you know you're not just friends. 

And lying here with her like this, you know that she knows it too. 


End file.
